


Of Hand Holds and Limerence

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:03:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Yuri bites his nails, and Otabek is determined to help him kick the habit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Before you even read this: There's lots of word reuse as I couldn't find many synonyms for hand. Also, though I do bite my nails, I don't have a hot boyfriend to hold my hand, so if I wrote that completely wrong, I'm sorry.

The first time Otabek notices it is right before Yuri’s second grand prix final performance. He’s walking towards the rink, hair up and back straight. It’s a half formed thought, lightly tugging at his mind. Otabek is too caught up in the pleasant, stinging smell of the rink and the slide of blades on ice to fully process it, and Yuri has stopped when Otabek steps off the ice and no longer fixated his performance. 

The next time he notices, it’s a passive observation, something he sees but doesn’t fully register. Yuri is chewing on his nails, somehow still managing to rant about how disgustingly in love Yuuri and Viktor Nikiforov are and curse when hot chocolate spills on his sleeve. Otabek doesn’t think that Yuri is aware he’s doing it, and doesn’t know how to bring it to his attention. 

The third time he catches it is when Yuri is visiting for a weekend. They’re sat in front of Otabek’s tv, knees lightly pressed together, watching old horror movies. Yuri has one arm wrapped tightly around a pillow and the other limb propped up on his thigh, fingers just breaching his lips. Otabek diverts his attention from cushion centric jealousy to Yuri, who’s expression tightens into a slight wince, most likely as he bites too far down the nail. Yuri pulls the extremity out of his mouth and frowns a little, as if just realizing it was there. It’s cute, and Otabek lets out an amused puff of air. Yuri doesn’t notice. 

The fourth time Yuri is caught, Otabek has a different approach. He’s at the banquet following his first Grand Prix gold, Yuri a close second. The two of them are standing against the wall, almost shoulder to shoulder, and near enough that he can smell Yuri’s shampoo. He’s so near, infact, that he can hear the shift in Yuri’s breathing. The rough, irritated sound that accompanies his inhale as JJ traipses nearer to them. Yuri is still cautiously eyeing the skater when his hand starts to drift upwards towards his mouth. He stops, however, when Otabek’s fingers close around his wrist. It’s a gentle, tentative movement, and Yuri could rip his arm away if he wanted, but there is a softly determined contortion to Otabek’s features, usually blank and closed off, so he doesn’t. “You could get an infection.” Otabek says simply, and slides his fingers down to clasp Yuri’s hand, pulling his arm down gently as he does so. Yuri doesn’t trust himself enough to speak, so he nods, and relaxes into the palm gripping his and in moment of bravery, squeezes Otabek’s hand a little tighter. Otabek smiles at him, for maybe the sixth time ever, and Yuri decides it’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, so he grins back. When Viktor catches his eye and beams at their hands, Yuri finds it hard to glare. He manages somehow, though.

And so, a sort of system is born. Whenever Otabek sees Yuri bite at his nails, he looks him in the eye and grabs his hand. Yuri has never liked acknowledge his habit, born out of the combination of stress, focus, and anger, but he has also never had such attractive motivation. Otabek has stupidly warm hands for someone who’s career takes place on ice and for some reason Yuri savors the feeling of his skin, and occasionally gives in to the urge to run his finger tips over the ridges of Otabek’s knuckles and the scars on his palms. 

Like most things in life, their perfect system becomes imperfect and is forced to evolve with them. Their perfect system becomes flawed as his hands get cold but he had too much pride to wear mittens, as his distress grows without hands to clench in his own, as Yuri’s habit goes away but he still yearns for someone to hold on to. Yuri has learned that when he wants something, he has to go after it, and go after it he does. 

Walking down the streets of Moscow in the middle of winter prove to frigid, and neither of them think to wear gloves. Yuri is almost grateful. He pulls a hand out of his pocket and grabs Otabek's, his jaw set stubbornly, eyes daring him to pull his hand away. He doesn't. "Cold?" Otabek asks, squeezing Yuri's hand tighter. 

"Yeah." Yuri shivers, as if to prove his point. Otabek nods and they don't speak for a while. 

Interviews have never been something Yuri is good at, or likes. They make him nervous and angry at his nervousness. Or, they did, before Otabek and Yuri adapted. Yuri has been roped into an interview after finishing his exhibition program, and spots someone short, dark, and, he grudgingly admits, handsome. "Oi, Beka, c'mere." Otabek's head snaps in his direction and he walks forward, eyes glimmering with a sort of muted delight. He doesn't ask why Yuri has beckoned him over, and complies with the journalist, ever the gentlemen. When Yuri is asked about a mistake in his program, he keeps his eyes locked with the girl and blindly searches at his waist for Otabek's hand. He finds it, and Otabek has the decency to keep a straight face and adjust their fingers so they're comfortable. 

Yuri’s cat dies, and it hits him harder than he thought it would. He doesn’t let it impact his skating, but he can’t hide from pain forever. It takes him three days to be brave enough to call Otabek and ask him to visit. This time, it's not just a hand, Yuri is blessed with a whole arm around his shoulder that he gratefully sinks into and a side that radiates heat when Yuri is close to it, forced into Otabek's space by the size of his kitchen. Otabek is there for a week, puts his life on hold for seven days, comforts Yuri for 168 hours, and holds him for quite a few of those. Yuri doesn't get another cat, but he endures.

He endures when he places fourth in the Grand Prix that year, the lowest he's placed yet. He tries, he tries so very hard, but he's of legal drinking age and slipping out of sober awareness is far too tempting. Alcohol burns his throat and spreads heat through his limbs. He is warm and loose, speech slurred and slow. His vision is blurry, but he can still make out Otabek's face, pinched in worry. He's still ridiculously beautiful, and when Yuri tells him this, he sighs and says "You're drunk, Yura, let's go home." Except Yuri is already home, drunk or not, because home is not the tiny apartment littered with cat toys he hasn't got the heart to throw out and the bed that's lumpy and cool. Home is the sound of Otabek's laugh mixing with his, home is rumble of a bike and the comfort of Otabek's leather jacket around his shoulders in the cold. Home is the space they share and the warmth of scarred hands blanketing his. This revelation is frightening, even when Yuri is far from sobriety and he doesn't speak for the rest of the night. 

He wakes up in their shared hotel room and the sun burns his eyes and his head throbs. He pulls himself out of the blankets and walks past Otabek's sleeping form, making his way to the bathroom. Thirty minutes later, he emerges teeth brushed, showered, dressed, and headache ebbing away slightly with the aid of Advil. Otabek is slowly waking up, and Yuri makes tea for the two of them. Remorse is threatening his already fragile sanity, but something else is eating away at his mental stability. He is scared, scared because of the drunken realization that the man blinking sleep from his eyes and squinting against the sun in a way that should be unattractive is someone who has entered his orbit and try as he might, someone Yuri can't get to leave. Admittedly, he hasn't tried that hard, but he doesn't want to. And the epiphany that there is a very real threat that he loves someone is making it very hard not to scream into a pillow. 

Yuri has always found it hard to hide his emotions, and Otabek has always found it easy to read him. When Otabek wakes up fully and removes himself from the mattress, the first thing Yuri does is thrust tea at his chest and deliver a flustered apology for last night. Otabek excepts the tea, and says "That's what friends do, we look out for each other." Yuri gives into to his pillow urges. He's suddenly discontent with the label "friend." "What?" Otabek asks, brows raised. Yuri mumbles something into the pillow, speech made indecipherable by the cloth pressed to his mouth. Otabek makes a confused noise and asks "Do you mind repeating that, Yura?" Yuri speaks again to the pillow. "Yuri, please, I can't understand you." Yuri removes his head from the cushion and declares a little too loudly for nine thirty in the morning "If you hate me it's totally your fault." He dives sideways across the couch where they both are, and his lips find Otabek's. Yuri's mouth is placed lightly over his despite his enthusiastic start, allowing him to back away if he wants. He doesn't. Otabek pushes into the kiss and his hands migrate to Yuri's hair, gentle and adoring. Yuri melts. A few minutes later, they are smiling stupidly at each other, foreheads pressed together and lips swollen, and Yuri does more than endure.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Second fic, so clearly I'm still operating under the delusion that I can write. I'm sorry. Mostly for the plot, as I was inspired by a prompt on Tumblr, but sort of strayed from it to create this mess. I also apologize for both the title and summary, let's not even talk about them. Looking back I certainly could have established time between events better, but I'm far too lazy. Finally, any technical errors are my own, and constructive (or not, maybe you have a lot of pent up rage, I don't judge) criticism is appreciated. Thanks!


End file.
